I am Jack's Missing Pieces
by Medulla Oblongata
Summary: Narrator/Tyler, slash. The Narrator hopes that Tyler doesn't bring Marla home.
1. Chapter 1

Note: This is my first fic, hope you enjoy, and constructive reviews are always appreciated. Hm, I probably use too many quotes in this, oh well.

Disclaimer: I don't own "Fight Club."

Pairing: Narrator/Tyler, slash, so don't read if you're not into this sort of thing.

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That's right Tyler. I am not a beautiful or unique snowflake. I am the same decaying organic matter as everyone else.

My fingers twist around in the back of my mouth, trying to pry out the molar that's decided its time is up. Or maybe it's the guy who pounded my face in tonight who made that decision. Either way, it keeps leaking whatever fluids come after the blood has stopped, that weird, salty stuff that you just know is going to turn into an infection if you leave the tooth alone. Or maybe it's because you won't. It comes out with a sick, suctioning sound, with that alliteration and everything. I drop it into the sink, watch it circle the drain. It's like Tyler said the first time I played dentist on my own mouth; "Hey, even the Mona Lisa's falling apart." It disappears over the lip of the drain.

I am Jack's missing pieces. How much of me have I lost since joining Fight Club? The blood all over the basement of Lou's Bar, the drops that must've gotten spattered onto other guy's clothes, the splotches on all the shreds of tissue paper I've used to tamp the bleeding. And the sweat, the gobs of spit. I bet I could fill pools with it. But it's the teeth I miss. Either those or the piece of me Tyler took.

Does he even know he has it? This unnamed chunk of my psyche that must've been the thing saying, "Go ahead, be content. Conform and consume." But now that complacence is gone, and instead, there's always a desperate, driving need to do exactly as Tyler says.

I'm still standing at the sink, eyes staring into the scummy black drain hole when I hear Tyler coming up the stairs. I listen for a second pair of footsteps. God, I hope Marla's not with him.

Tyler passes me on the way to the toilet. No Marla. "Don't talk about her," Tyler warns over his shoulder, he's got his pants down, taking a piss. "What? I—" There's no point in arguing, I shut my mouth, decide to stay facing the mirror, hands on the edge of the sink.

"No, but you were thinking about saying something," Tyler turns to face me, zipping up his fly, "You made a promise. You were about to break it."

I let out an exasperated noise, "Whatever, Tyler." I start to work on getting the blood out of the bristles of my toothbrush, anything to keep me from looking at him, and letting him know that I'm afraid of what he might say or do next. Then he'd just ask me what the fifth rule of Fight Club is. As if I need a reminder.

Tyler's hands suddenly appear on the rim of the sink, trapping me between it and his body. I try to turn around, get out, get away, but he's got me pinned. My voice comes out higher than I'd like it to, there's a squeak of panic in it, "Tyler! What the fuck are you doing?!"

His eyes lock on mine in the mirror, his gaze is steady, controlled… predatory. "What. The. Fuck. Do. You. Think?" His mouth forms each word carefully, like he doesn't think I'll understand him.

He holds my gaze pointedly, even as he tilts his head towards the left side of my neck and slowly licks up until his tongue is inside my ear. Then he pulls back a little, he's got that same look on his face, the one he had before he dumped lye on the back of my hand. I can't help it, I'm shaking a little, there's no escape. All I can do is watch. Tyler's lips are against my ear, his voice is soft, "I know you're glad she's not here. And. I know you're jealous of her."

This gets a rise out of me—that's Tyler's intention. My arms are still free, so I try to elbow Tyler in the ribs, a hand goes up to grab at his neck, anything to make him let me go. He just smiles patiently before restraining my flailing arms; his reaction timing has always been better than mine. I stop struggling because he's got my arms pinned to my sides in something that might've resembled an embrace, but isn't. My ribs are screaming, I can barely breathe. Tyler backs up a step, dragging me with him. Now the sink isn't digging into my waist, I catch my expression in the mirror: confusion. I'd have thought that Tyler would want me as incapacitated as possible, but then again, it's obvious he knows I'm not putting up much of fight.

His right hand begins to move down my torso while he starts talking again, "Don't worry," his lips quirk a bit, then he intones, like he's quoting something, "She's not a threat to you." I'm distracted from what he says next—Tyler's warm hand is palming my cock through my worn-out boxers. My breath hitches and I can feel heat rushing down, somehow his other hand has found its way up my undershirt and is making slow, circular motions over my chest. I am Jack's aching need.

My head falls back against Tyler's shoulder, his nails make claw marks down my torso, causing my hips to jerk up involuntarily into his other hand. I hear a chuckle, which draws my attention to the mirror. Tyler laps at my jaw-line as my half-lidded reflection stares back at the two of us. Then he looks up into the mirror too, and licks his lips before planting a kiss on my temple, "This," he whispers, "is _real_ fucking." He pulls my boxers down abruptly, "Hands against the wall."

I obey, placing my hands on either side of the mirror, bits of stucco flake under my fingers. I hear Tyler yank his pants down—I don't think he even owns underwear—then he spits into his palm, groaning as he wipes it over his cock. This is going to hurt. He grabs hold of my hips and that's the only warning I have before he shoves it into me. Pain. Blackness ignites in my optic nerves and explodes before my vision. I don't even have the capacity to scream. Tyler thrusts in and out, again and again, blood slicks his hard-on.

Suddenly Tyler stops. "Open your eyes," his voice is rough. It takes a second for my sight to return, and when it does, I see my own flushed face, Tyler's wild eyes, wet lips. "Remember this," it's a command. His calloused hand wraps around my burning member as he slams into me again, but this time he hits something in me that destroys every thought, and all I am is sensation. I moan, maybe, probably, I don't know, it doesn't matter. All I'm aware of is Tyler's hand pumping my cock in sync with the movement of his hips. Our breath comes in unsteady pants, the sound of the two of us fucking sends a flash of recognition—the wet packing noises of beating another man into a bloody pulp. But this, _this _is better.

The wall creaks under the strain, more chunks of stucco drop. Movements get faster, jerkier, my hips move of their own accord, desperate for more friction. Sweat drips from Tyler's forehead onto my back and a strangled groan escapes his mouth. The sound of him enjoying this is too much. I can't stop myself from releasing into Tyler's hand, back arching, muscles spasming "Oh fuck!" my scream cuts through the house. Time is suspended and Tyler lets out a yell as he cums deep inside me. I'm drowning in pleasure. He wraps his arms around my stomach, leaning heavily against me for a few seconds before pulling out, wiping semen from his hand, then pulling my boxers back up and then his pants. He grins at our reflections, "Next time, I want you to fuck me as hard as you can." A slap on the ass is the last thing I get as he walks out of the room.

Now I've got another bodily fluid to dump into a pool.

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	2. Chapter 2

Note: Thanks everyone for reviewing! I'd originally planned to leave this as a oneshot, but I got to thinking after Luca1's comment, and this is what I came up with. I'll probably write one more chapter after this. Again, thanks for the reviews, they help keep me focused!

Disclaimer: I don't own "Fight Club."

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I wake up.

On my creaky, disgusting mattress. My head feels like it's been stuck in a washing machine—my ass feels much worse. Tyler, Tyler, Tyler, Tyler. My hand reaches up absently and touches the place where Tyler kissed me on the temple. I'm almost expecting to feel an open, Tyler's lips-shaped wound there. What was last night? A near life experience.

Everything hurts. Dried blood sticks my boxers to my hamburger-meat raw skin. I pick up a few clothes that are cleaner than the ones I have on and shuffle towards the bathroom, even showering in rust-colored water sounds good right now. There are two hand-sized patches on either side of the mirror where the wooden slats show through more than usual.

My reflection stares blankly at me. I look like shit. My clothes drop to the floor next to the shower, I go to the toilet, take my undershirt off, and peel my boxers off with a band-aid ripping sound. This is the first time in weeks that I've been able to use the bathroom without going on top three or four used condoms. I smile a little. No more Marla Singer, no more banshee shrieking in the middle of the night, no m—that's when I notice the dildo lying like a dead fish next to the toilet. It's Marla's. Of course I recognize it. She's waved it in my face enough times while I'm eating breakfast. Sometimes she leaves it on the table amongst the soap-making supplies and the dirty dishes.

I have no idea how long it's been in the bathroom. It looks clean, or as clean as one of those things can get. She must've left it here after her last visit. I don't know why it bothers me. Tyler is done with Marla. At least I think he is, otherwise last night wouldn't have—

"Hey, are you just going to stare at your own piss or may I use the facilities?" I've never figured out how Tyler can appear soundlessly whenever he wants to. I look to the right, Tyler's against the door frame, he's got his ratty pink robe on, one of the sewn-on coffee mugs is starting to come off.

"Better take a picture, it'll last longer," Tyler says, then he knocks me to the side with an elbow in my ribs. "Stop staring—haven't I told you? I can't go when you look," Tyler gives me another shove as he fiddles around in his bathrobe for his cock, "Shower. Now. You look like shit."

I step over the rim of the tub, into the scummy layer that rings the sides—you'd expect it to be a grey, green mold color, but instead, the color's reminiscent of coagulated blood. Go figure. I'm so used to the sleet that's supposed to be water blasting from the showerhead that I don't even flinch when I turn it on anymore.

Goose bumps are little ice needles poking up through my skin. I can't bring myself to move, let alone reach for a rag and a bar of soap. Ice encases my brain. All functions slow to a stop. Tyler interrupts my hypothermia-induced brain death when he bats what's left of the tattered shower curtain aside. He's smiling like a kid who's just made his first dirty joke—my eyes move to the hand that's holding the dildo vertical, even still, it droops and wiggles a little.

"Did you really just pick that up?" I am Jack's undisguised revulsion. "You have no idea where it's been."

"Oh?" Tyler raises an eyebrow, "Actually, I think I know many places where it's been. And… where it could go."

I retreat back a step towards the other end of the tub. Oh no. He can't be serious. I take another step back just to make sure I'm out of his reach. This is a bad move. My heel lands on a bar of soap, slides, and I fall in slow motion, glaciers melt faster than this. I try to stop my descent with a grab at the shower curtain. The rings attaching the curtain to the bar make metallic pops as the material rips through each rivet. The back of my head makes a dull, resounding gong against the bottom of the tub.

Tyler's laughing his ass off. The dildo jiggles as his whole body shakes in hysterics. He tries to say something, and I barely catch it over the ringing in my ears, the shower still spluttering water at me, and his choked laughter, "Jeez, it was just a joke—I mean, about using it on you." Tyler regains his composure, bends over so he can look me in the eye, "I was going to say that she's going to be back for this," he wags the dildo, "And when she does come, just hand it over. Don't speak, don't make eye contact, don't even breathe," he straightens up, "Then," he flashes a smile before tossing the dildo onto my stomach, "we're done with her." He moves out of my sight line.

I sense Tyler leaving the room more than hear him, since gongs are still sounding in my head. Of course there's no helping hand. My body is in shock. I can't even move enough to get the dildo to slither off of me.

Where I am now? I can definitely see what the bottom looks like.

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	3. Chapter 3

Note: Sorry this last chapter was so long in coming. I must admit, this is a challenging configuration to write, but I think it turned out pretty well. Thanks for all the reviews, and let me know what you think of this chapter! I'm re-posting this because I caught a few grammatical errors, and changed some things I wasn't quite happy with.

Disclaimer: I don't own "Fight Club."

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I haven't slept. In days, minutes, hours, months—I don't know.

The bags under my eyes are so pronounced they almost need their own names. I'll call the right Tyler and the left Marla. Marla. She never did come back for her dildo. Tyler stuck it on top of the leaky, lukewarm fridge where it stands semi-erect like some fucked up tribute to what Tyler said I can't remember how long ago. Women are the last thing we need.

I'm lying on my mattress, taking care of myself since Tyler is gone. Thankfully his fucking space monkeys are gone, too. He leaves without saying anything most of the time, and his boys left crowing something about some new mission—but clam up when I'm around. There's no joy in the task, literally, in hand. It's fucking impossible, staring up at the stained, decaying ceiling, thinking about Tyler, but just getting an awful image of him smirking, "You decide your level of involvement in Project Mayhem."

My face twists and it must be ugly, I give my cock a near-violent pull and then I hear the door creak open, "If you're not careful, you're gonna yank your dick clean off. Then how'll I collect on my owed fuck?"

His silhouette leans against the doorway. Tyler Durden. Hate, rage, loathing, need, desperation, churn through my sleep-starved mind. I prop myself up on my elbows and give him a sneer, "Sorry, I didn't think there was a still-standing debt, _Mr. _Durden."

He shifts a little in the doorframe, and flashes a smile, all teeth, "Trying the clever thing again? I'll tell you this—it's not working out for you."

I've got no snappy response, I'm too exhausted for Tyler's games, so I turn away from him and stare at the wall opposite, eyes glancing over the swelling plaster and rot. Flashes of memory, hands wearing patches in the damp bathroom wall, heat, want, having, make me even more embittered.

Tyler lets out a dramatic, put-upon sigh. Suddenly, he's flopped on the bed, and I flinch. We're about three inches away from what would look like spooning. "C'mon, sweetheart," his voice is mocking, "Don't be that way, you know I've got obligations."

I grit my teeth, and shut my eyes, imagine pounding his stupid grin into Lou's cement floor—though it'd never really happen. Tyler hates being ignored. A hand grabs my shoulder and jerks me flat on my back, before I can react, he's straddling me, holding my arms spread-eagled and bruised against the mattress.

"Get the fuck off me!" I scream, muscles coiled and writhing against Tyler's hold, but it doesn't matter. Tyler always has the upper hand. "Why don't you just go screw one of your space monkeys!?! Leave me the f—" Tyler's velvety lips seal over my cracked and dry ones, his tongue down my throat stops the rest of whatever I'd been yelling. I try to turn away, but Tyler releases my arms, and forces my head to stay still with his palms against my temples while his fingers massage my scalp roughly. Any half-planned attempt at getting Tyler off me scatters.

It's not even kissing, really, just a brutal assault of teeth and our tongues, his lingers over the sockets where two of my molars used to be, mine finds old cuts and brand-new tissue before Tyler nips my tongue, hard. My erection pulses as a strangled yelp escapes me, and I taste blood. Lots. Tyler lets out a smug chuckle, but doesn't draw back. I can't help it, rage pools in the pit of my stomach and without thinking, a fist—mine—smacks Tyler in the ear, just how my very first one landed.

"Fuck!" Tyler sits up unsteadily, disoriented. I'm already struggling to right myself with Tyler still straddling me, like the pushover I am, I start to apologize. He looks down out me disgustedly, "Psycho," he says as he sucker punches me in the stomach. Air whooshes from my lungs. I am Jack's unleashed aggressions.

I hit Tyler in the jaw this time, then his sternum, and all he does is laugh—I picture when Tyler let Lou beat the shit out of him, blood and spit spattered across the concrete floor, how he laughed just like he is now—as I punch him again and again. Somehow, our positions have reversed, I'm on top, feeling confused at how I've gotten there and how uncomfortably unbearable my boner has become.

"What now, Ikea Boy?" Tyler looks up at me through his one eye that's not starting to blacken. "Gonna make that wood into a nice little yin yang coffee table? Or are you going to do something _useful_ with it?" He thrusts his pelvis up, and makes his own need apparent as it bumps against mine.

My breath catches, electricity where our cocks rub. Tyler has sweat and blood smeared around on his face, his button-down, cheesy, patterned shirt sticks to his skin, his hands are settled on the tops of my thighs, his eyes taunt me. I lean down before Tyler can make any other comments and cover his jugular with my mouth, laving my still-bleeding tongue over it as my hands work the buttons of his shirt. Unexpectedly, Tyler leans his head back, and mutters something that sounds like appreciation for the job I'm doing on his neck—I bite down, revenge, sinking my teeth into sinews, which seem to be the only thing Tyler's made of.

"Jesus fucking Christ! What the fuck do you think you are? A vampire!?!" Tyler's head jerks away and one of his hands comes away red when he wipes his neck, the other leaves half-moons with dirty fingernails in my leg. I don't answer and grab his hair roughly while fumbling with his belt buckle and I lock mouths with him, mostly to feel the lips scarred into my left hand against my own.

The buckle's undone, I unzip his fly and manage to yank his pants down some. I grip his cock, which feels heavy and heated—Tyler groans and grabs my wrist impatiently, "Worry about that once you're in, cowboy." His joke falls on deaf ears, because even now, I can't wrap my mind around fucking Tyler. It'd be more plausible to fuck God up the ass.

Tyler knows I'm hesitant. He snorts, "Aw, you pussy! Get back to me when you've grown a pair." His hands are against the mattress, trying to get up. I almost let him. It's that all-knowing smirk that makes me shove him back down.

"Whoa! _That's_ more like it!" I ignore Tyler, trying to concentrate on getting through yet another near-life experience, pulling his pants farther down, finally taking out my own needy cock from threadbare boxers. Before I have time to think anymore, I angle myself clumsily at Tyler's entrance, amazingly, he keeps his wise-cracks to himself, and I buck violently forward into what might be uncharted territory—well, let's face it, Marla's dildo probably made it there first.

Tyler and I scream hoarsely. Fully sheathed, I can barely stand it—I've never even thought about what he'd be like, didn't want to overstep any unsaid rules Tyler might have. It's easy to imagine Tyler making a rule like that: "Rule number 11 billion, you do not fantasize about fucking Tyler Durden." Yeah, I'd know why he'd make that rule—fucking him is infinitely better than fantasizing.

His left hand clutches my ass, his right pounds repeatedly against my shoulder blade, like inflicting pain while receiving it will make anything better. Ragged inhales and exhales, searing heat where our bodies connect. I wait a beat, but it feels much, much longer. My body asks how I could've ever fucked anyone besides Tyler, Tyler, Tyler, lying beneath me. All primal, violent instincts channeled into fucking. I am saved—if I can only keep myself from cumming too early.

I begin to move uncertainly. Tyler hisses and claws at my back, I didn't even remember to use spit to make this any easier. Nothing for it now—I reach a hand between the two of us, letting my fingers slide over Tyler's sweat-slicked abs, before gripping his erection. Tyler tenses around me as his hips jerk up, my vision goes white for a millisecond and I grind back into Tyler without thinking. I freeze, looking down at him for some sign that it's okay to pick up the pace, and Tyler's glassy, lust-filled eyes meet mine. I am Jack's lost inhibitions.

Uneven strokes in and out of Tyler, same goes for the hand trying to pleasure Tyler's cock, which is smashed between our stomachs. The pants I'd attempted to pull down are in the way, the zipper's cutting into my left thigh, but I can't bring myself to care or fix it. Tyler makes primal noises, and in the mix, I hear a name that sounds like my real one, I'd almost forgotten it, but Tyler distracts me from that half-thought when he shoves a couple of his fingers into my resisting ass. A strained gasp escapes my throat, I barely resist wriggling backwards against Tyler's digits, and instead jerk forward, trying to find that spot inside Tyler that's going to make him screa—found it.

I circle the pad of my thumb over the tip of Tyler's erection, wiping the pre-cum leaking from his slit around the head, while pumping into him mercilessly. The end is almost near for both of us, I can feel my orgasm building in my gut, but I manage to hold it off, hoping to get Tyler to cum first. I attach my mouth to his neck again, right where the angry purple bruise and teeth marks are placed and rake lips, teeth, tongue over the exact same spot, hoping to fucking god it'll get Tyler off... Tyler's thighs clench, vice-like against my hips and a barely intelligible "F-fuck!" rips through his throat as he arches up against me, burying his fingers deeper into my ass. Cum spurts in ropes between sandwiched bodies, and I ejaculate into Tyler, following him down the orgasmic abyss, inky, all-consuming, and fucking perfect, screaming the only name that matters to me, Tyler, Tyler, Tyler, Tyler.

I collapse on top of him, muscles spasming as I pull out and roll off, listening to our exhausted, gasping breaths. Tyler flings his arm over my chest, and the back of his hand rests there—the closest thing to any after-sex affection I know Tyler will ever show me. "You did good, champ," Tyler says and lets out a sigh as he settles back against the one ratty pillow. I smile a little as my eyelids close, and dark, enveloping sleep folds over me. Finally.

I am Jack's missing pieces. For all I fucking care, Tyler can keep them.

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